


the artifact

by potatobird



Category: Original Work
Genre: Accidental Pregnancy, Belly Kink, Blow Jobs, Body Modification, Breast Expansion, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dick Growth, F/F, F/M, Fpreg, Hugely pregnant, Hyperpregnancy, Immobility, Magic Made Them Do It, Magic dick, Magical Pregnancy, Mpreg, Outgrowing Clothes, Pregnancy, Something Made Them Do It, Too Pregnant to Move, belly inflation, but just one near the end, dubcon, girldick, rapid pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:40:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27884656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potatobird/pseuds/potatobird
Summary: For the prompt"Magical artifact causes female thief to impregnate everyone she touches/has sex with"I uh, forgot to make her a thief in-text, but she is a bit of a fuckboi? Before all the magic stuff, that is.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character, Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Kudos: 117





	the artifact

“Hold up. Is this the one...?” Sam points at the container marked with the item number and picture.

Allie rolls her eyes. “Yeah. Fucking creep. He won’t shut up about it. It’s so fucking weird.” 

Sam studies the picture. “It doesn’t even look like a dick. What, does he get a hard-on every time he touches a fire hydrant too?”

Yeah, yeah. _"Stylized"_ or whatever. 

Allie snorts. “Probably.” 

“Can I touch it?” 

She rolls her eyes again with a small smile. “Sure.” She hands over the gloves. 

Grinning, Sam puts them on and reaches into the container. 

“Please don’t drop it.” 

“An ancient dick-deity? I would guard this with my—“ Sam’s voice stops when she touches the statue and something she can only describe as a pulse rockets through her core. Her clit _throbs_ suddenly, and she’s oddly aware of it. _What the fuck, Sam._ She clears her throat and continues. Her hand only briefly pauses on its journey, and stays steady. “—Life.” 

The journey from the container to the countertop feels like an eternity. Sam is suddenly and excruciatingly aware of the heat rising up her whole body, flushing her cheeks. Her eyelids feel heavy and her mouth feels slack and she’s _excruciatingly_ aware of Allie’s eyes on her. There’s a white-hot... _feeling_ around her clit. She’s not usually so aware of it. But it’s not _on_ her clit, just... the general area? It’s not heat, not pressure—but at the same time, it’s both. And it has her core pulling tight. 

Whatever it is, it’s distracting. 

The ancient dildo-statue-thing lands on the countertop with a soft but definite _clunk_ , and Sam just about startles out of her skin. She clears her throat and steps back slightly, grateful for the excuse to put the spotlight on anyone, any _thing_ , else. 

Wetness glides smooth and hot at her core as she moves. She’s _embarrassingly_ wet. And that strange white-hot not-heat is still bright and distracting near her clit. 

Thankfully, Allie doesn’t seem to be all that focused on her. 

After a moment, Sam realizes she should, maybe, say something? 

“So,” She says, and her voice sounds strange in her own ears, strained and awkward. Allie doesn’t seem to notice. She gestures in the direction of the statue. “What’s up with that?” 

Allie gives her a tour of the room and explains the artifacts she’d been telling Sam about for months before even considering a behind-the-scenes tour. Once Allie wraps up in that room, they move onto the next. 

Sam’s clit throbs the whole time, though, and she’s aware of it in a way she’s never been before. It feels _thick_ , almost; like she can feel it between her legs when she walks, hard and sensitive. She even feels it when she stands still. 

Whatever. Ninety percent of this whole deal was about breaking into the museum anyways and seeing their cool toys, not anything else. She can jill off later. 

//

When Allie wraps up the tour, she has to stop at a much more populated office (even at this time of night) and grab some stuff. She ushers Sam back into the first storeroom she showed her, makes her promise (cross her heart and hope to die) to _not leave_. 

Sam sighs, and turns—and her eyes fall on the container with its picture and serial number. 

That ache, banked with time and distraction but far from gone, flares. 

//

Her hands are sweaty inside their gloves as she reaches into the container the second time. The electricity in her gut drives it, makes her hands clammy. Stupid. She’s just being weird. Like Allie’s creepy co-worker who swears up and down he gets a hard-on every time he has to handle the artifact. 

She only barely chokes back on a surprised whimper as her hand wraps around the stone phallus and her clit _pulses_ again. Her core swells, flush and soft with blood and arousal. Her clit feels hot, stiff—like it’s so engorged and sensitive it stands out, even amid the generous, aching arousal around it. 

She sets the phallus on the desk again in front of her, pulse hammering. Looks it over while she holds it in her hand. It’s stylized, but she can kind of see how it—it looks swollen, kind of, so hard that it strains. 

Her clit pulses as if in response to that thought, and from where she’s sitting, even with her core wet and soft, there’s a feeling of... pressure in her clit. She’s sitting still, just kind of... staring at it and sweating (among other things), almost not breathing. After a moment, she realizes she’s almost locked in place, rigid with tension, and adjusts her position—

And nearly jumps off the chair when her underwear brushes and then clings to the head of her clit. It’s exactly as sensitive as it sounds, neither completely pleasant nor painful. But it is intense. And she doesn’t want it to stop. 

And okay. She may be more turned on right now than she’s ever been in her life, but she’s still _never_ felt like this was even a physical possibility. 

It makes her heart skip a beat. Actually, it makes her heart skip several. She cannot—will not—let go of the stone phallus. Breathing hard, sweat beading at her hairline, she forces herself to shift her grip on the phallus. 

The feeling of tightness shifts, down near her clit. It stays in place, but something else becomes clear, in that brief flicker of not-movement: It feels like pressure on her clit. Like it’s being squeezed. And the pressure? Is driving her wild. Making the muscles in her cunt tighten until they tremble, making her wetter than she’s ever been before, soaking through her underwear—she can practically feel it. And everything—sensation, attention, blood—rushes to her clit, which throbs and strains against the sensation of being squeezed like that. It feels restrained, in a way—safe, but vulnerable, too. Like something has her by it and could almost lead her around by it with clever hands. 

She pulses her hands around the shape of the phallus. That _clench_ around the whole length of her clit—suddenly she feels aware of it as something that _has_ length—has her clit twitching, throbbing, untouched. She can feel the fabric of her underwear laying wet and tight to the head of her clit. Not clinging to her labia, at least not up there. As if the head of her clit is standing out from the swollen mess of her sex. Her inner muscles shape themselves, clench, hold—with the sensation of pressure around her clit. 

She pulses her hand a few times, tentatively. Each time, her clit jolts, aches, seems to swell. Thicker and longer, until Sam stops and realizes—her clit _is_ bigger. It has to be. Her excruciatingly sensitive clit head is getting direct pressure from the seam of her jeans, now, not just the fabric tension of her underwear—but even that is tight in a way that stokes the inferno of want in her gut. And she’s moving against the tightness of the fabric, and against the seam of her jeans. She can’t seem to stop herself. 

And her clit is responding to it. What started as a single slender, almost overwhelmingly intense point of contact has turned into something else—thick, swollen, pushing her labia apart, pushing at the denim of her jeans, hard and so sensitive all she can do is rock against it. Her core muscles are trembling, apart from when she remembers to breathe—gasps and shudders, mostly. Occasionally, she’ll remember to move her thumb, or slide her hand up and down gently. She almost sees stars when she does that. Not because she comes—she feels almost incapable of coming, for how out-of-her-mind aroused she feels—but because of the way it makes her clit pulse, blood rushing to it. 

After an interminable amount of time, she has to shift positions. The pressure on her clit needs some relief. Her underwear is sticky, and—

Holy shit. She can feel her clit. She can _feel it_ , like, like— Clearly sticking out from where it was mostly-unobtrusively hidden before, big and thick and hard. It feels _huge_. Relative to how it was before, at least. And because of how sensitive it is, the reaction even a little stimulation provokes... it’s almost more than any one piece of flesh has the right to feel. It slices through her thoughts, turns her into something feverish and compulsive and animal and it’s indescribable, she doesn’t ever want to stop. She’s torn between just wanting to rut into the air and ripping her jeans open and finishing this. And when she moves even the slightest bit—the pressure on the sides of the shaft when she closes her legs too far, sending another jolt through her, the way it pushes her labia apart, swelling out from between them like a— like a—

She resettles her jeans, rearranges herself on the chair, and begins to focus again. 

As she strokes the figure—somehow, her hands manage to be steady for _that_ —more of that white-hot aching tension seems to gather in her clit, and she feels the bud of it swelling out from her body, finding the denim of her jeans again. Her hips rock entirely of their own accord, sending shocks of pleasure through her body. It feels... fuck. She doesn’t know. If she lets herself fall into it, she imagines her clit just keeps growing larger and larger, all the arousal building in it swelling it until it’s straining at the zipper of her jeans—

She finally moves a little more than strictly necessary to get the friction she’s looking for and feels the denim of her pants shift, tighten—tug gently on her clit. 

Sam stares down at her lap, wondering how the _fuck_ she didn’t see this developing. 

Her clit, ragingly hard, achingly sensitive, is tenting her jeans. 

It doesn’t look like much, all told—maybe a couple of inches underneath? But the small bulge in her lap is very clearly the source of that pulse, that throb and ache, and for her, it’s _huge_. And the effort that's gone into this—the whole of her is messy, raw and sweat-soaked with arousal, her core flooded and sticky below it. Sweat sticks her shirt to her back, her sides, under her arms, under her breasts. Her jeans are soaked through at the seam with her wetness. 

And her clit is swelling into a shaft that she can see the evidence of through her _jeans_. 

It’s a batshit crazy thought that flashes through her mind—if this is the result of a few minutes’ worth of work, why not see how big she can stand to go? She doesn’t even know for sure that the statue is the reason. 

Hell, for all she knows, she’s hallucinating. She certainly _feels_ fevered. 

But her hands have a mind of their own, and that mind is in agreement with her incredibly engorged clit, and they start working on the statue again. 

It’s... torture, frankly. Being this turned on and not touching herself. But she’s afraid if she does, that will... ruin it, somehow. Make it stop. 

Maybe it’s torture, but she doesn’t want it to stop. At least not until she finds out how big this can get her. 

After all, who _doesn’t_ want to try having a dick? Just for five minutes. 

Her abdominal muscles are screaming with tension. Every so often, she has to stop and breathe and remember to loosen her muscles. 

Longer strokes, she’s figured. Pressure, tight pressure. There’s a spot under the head that makes her whole body twitch with phantom pleasure. Her clit strains against what she could swear feels exactly like the disembodied grip of her hand. Grows harder, thicker, swells against the pressure. Stands out further. Her breath comes in gasps. Her hips don’t push against the denim anymore; they rock into the air, her denim-encased clit fucking into it. 

The denim of her jeans starts to grow tight. Sooner than she thought, given how long the lead-up to realizing what was happening took. But now that she’s aware, she can’t look away, and it’s mesmerizing and _hot_ , fuck. She’s so turned on her clit feels like it’s about to burst her zipper. She’s never had her desire be so _clear_ before. Visually, too, but it’s so much more than that—like a feedback loop driving her higher and higher, out of her _mind_ , and the knowledge of how she looks, how _hard_ she is, is beyond hot—and that’s just one input. That’s not counting the tactile stimulation. Or anything else. 

She keeps her hands on the statue, though. Whether by will or some arcane drive; she doesn’t care. Her clit strains the denim of her pants, hard and hot and throbbing. But her pants aren’t that loose. 

She needs to give herself some room. 

Sam doesn’t think twice. With one trembling hand, she reaches down and unsnaps her jeans, works her zipper down over her—god, so sensitive—clit and peels apart the hot damp denim and pushes the underwear aside and—

It’s one thing to see the tent and feel and know what’s under it. It’s another to _see_ her clit, or whatever her clit is turning into, almost as long as her index finger (just counting the visible part) and easily thick as three. The head is swollen in an unmistakable flared shape. If she cranes around—she doesn’t dare touch it, if she does she doesn’t think she’ll be able to stop—she can see a... vein or a ridge of tissue running down the underside of it. There’s a slit at the tip. Something glistens there, hot and liquid. 

It’s a cock. That’s what it looks like. That’s what it’s behaving like. 

She resumes her stroking, leaving her pants open. 

She watches her cock grow. Head spinning from a combination of all the blood going to it and the intense sensation and all the tension in her body, her rapt attention to _one little thing_. Over the span of a few minutes, it swells to the length of her hand, from the base of her palm to the tip of her middle finger. Then longer, thicker. It starts to hang down under its own weight, even as transcendently hard as it is, coming to rest against the vee of her open zipper. That glistening liquid wells out of the tip, runs down the skin of it, infuriatingly light, infuriatingly tangible. Her hand tightens on the phallus. Her hips thrust into empty air. Her cock pulses, swells. 

She’s gonna stop at some point. This is getting ridiculous. And too much is just... too much. She won’t be able to _do_ anything with it, besides brag. 

Which is certainly an admirable goal on its own. 

The sound of the door opening is completely alien, too loud and too foreign all at once, has her almost jumping out of her skin, spinning to face the source of the strange noise. 

Allie stands in the doorway, an expression of complete incomprehension on her face. “Sam?” Her head tilts, and she realizes what she’s seeing, and her brow furrows. “... Um?”

“Sorry.” Sam’s voice cracks, comes out hoarse, rusty. Realizes that doesn’t cut it. “So the— the statue— It’s a thing.” 

Allie’s gaze takes a few beats to move up from Sam’s new cock, and Sam’s face flames. When it was just her, the heaviness, the way it looked—it was beyond hot. But reality is setting in and Sam is sticky and sweaty and tight and uncomfortable and her cock is _very_ on display. 

But that was not a hostile look that Allie gave her cock. 

Allie looks at her almost uncomprehendingly. Sam realizes what she just said. 

“I mean— the statue—“ She stops. “Look, it’ll be easier if I show you.” Allie’s eyebrows rise sharply. It takes an effort of will to not slap her palm to her forehead like a meme. “Fuck. Not like that. Never mind. Just— close the door.” 

Allie obliges that, at least. She takes a few steps into the room, and her eyes are still very much jumping back to Sam’s cock every few seconds. 

Her cock seems to like the attention. But she’s been edging herself for how long now? She might not ever get soft again. 

Oh, fuck. _Can_ she get soft again? That’s how this is supposed to work. Right?

But then, statues aren’t supposed to give you dicks, either. 

She looks at the statue in her gloved hand. “This isn’t gonna fit back in my jeans.” She actually does facepalm that time. “I mean— Ugh.”

She lowers her hand to find Allie giving her the exact look she was expecting to see. “Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you whipped it out.” 

“It’s not— I didn’t— It’s the fucking statue! I’m serious!”

Allie looks at her incredulously. Sam stares back at her, imploring her to believe her. Somehow, she’s able to generate a surprising amount of sincerity even with her dick out. 

Allie’s expression falters as the seconds tick on. It fades into semi-seriousness. “You’re kidding.” Sam shakes her head. “You’re not kidding.” Sam shakes her head again. Allie sighs heavily. “What the fuck.”

“Seriously!” 

“How do I know you’re not fucking with me?” 

Sam shrugs helplessly. “Watch.” She sets the phallus on the counter again, one arm left at her side so Allie can see her cock clearly. Her cock twitches hard enough it has to be visible. Sam swallows. It feels like she should be getting soft—she’s a lot of things, but an exhibitionist isn’t one of them. She starts to move her hand on the statue again, to work it with her fingers. 

It’s just as torturous and intense as before, only this time, she’s doing it in front of her friend. Her friend, who is an employee here. Her friend, who is smart and bright and a lot of things Sam isn’t. And Sam is probably breaking a billion rules to do this, not to mention some laws. 

But fuck, she’s so hard. And Allie doesn’t seem hostile, although she’s very carefully not looking over at her while she strokes the statue. But her, Sam doesn’t know, _energy_ or whatever, isn’t angry. Maybe not happy, but that’s something Sam does to a lot of other people, too. 

She starts out trying to be stoic about it—the point is to show Allie what happened, convince her she wasn’t being a creep, and then get out of here somehow while sporting a truly massive hard-on. Or maybe she can jack off. 

She’s not exactly planning things ten steps ahead. Or even three, for that matter. 

But she’s _so_ aroused. And there’s a part of her that wonders if Allie would... She’s not sure. If she’d let Sam inside her, maybe in her mouth, or touch her with her hands, or even let her inside her. Let Sam show her what she can offer. Let Sam soothe herself inside her. She could be good, she could do what Allie wants. 

Sam bites her lip and if she was actually touching herself, she’s pretty sure she would have come. 

As it is, precome wells out of the tip of her cock, slow glistening pulses. She can’t keep her hips still, or her breathing even. Her eyelids are so heavy she can barely hold them open. Her cock keeps swelling, until it’s huge, almost as long as her forearm and about as thick, too. It hangs low and heavy out in front of her, the head glittering wetly. 

“Jesus.” Allie breathes, and Sam’s insides clench at the tone of her voice. She sounds... affected. “It is the statue.” 

Sam nods, her hand stopping. She doesn’t remember how to make words. It seems like she’s impressed the seriousness of her predicament on Allie, at least.

“Fuck.” She looks around. Then, she fixes her gaze on the statue in Sam’s hand. “So, we’re putting that away.” She steps into Sam’s personal space, presumably to take charge of the statue. 

The problem is, that puts her inner thighs inches from her dick. Both of them seem to realize this at the same time, and freeze. 

Allie’s body is warm; Sam can feel it, even as worked up and unbearably hot as she is. And she smells nice. Clean. Sam can only imagine she reeks like sex, herself. 

Allie’s eyes find hers. Her eyes, glass-green, are dark. Her eyelids look heavy. 

Sam has to be hallucinating. 

With scale taken into consideration, she’s basically already between Allie’s legs—yes, her cock _is_ that big. Straining hard. Somehow, harder because Allie is so close. There’s a feeling of overfullness somewhere down inside her. Her whole body feels taut as a wire. When she comes, she’s probably going to feel like a used dishrag: Dirty and wet and limp. 

But right now, every cell in her body is suddenly focused on Allie. And Allie has _definitely_ noticed. 

Allie swallows, her eyes darkening. She reaches one hand out and wraps it around the wrist holding the statue. Sam’s heart hammers. She could swear Allie’s hips drift closer to hers. Allie’s thumb slides into the dip at the base of her palm, right around the middle, and presses, just hard enough to get Sam’s attention. 

“Let go.” It’s quiet. 

Sam lets go. Actually, she lays the statue on the table gently. Her fingers are numb, though. Her cock is inches from Allie’s inner thigh. 

Allie is staring at her lips. Sam’s knees feel weak. She’s breathing like she just ran a race. 

Allie moves just a little closer. The head of Sam’s cock brushes against the heated denim covering Allie’s inner thigh. Bumps the head of her deeper along the inside of Allie’s jean-clad thigh. Lets her drift between her legs, so engorged. 

Sam almost snaps then and there. Her cock twitches. Another hot surge of precome pulses out of it. She feels frozen to the spot, like a statue. 

Allie’s eyes dart behind her, to the chair Sam was just sitting in. “Sit down.” 

Sam sits. 

Allie starts stripping her lower body. Sam’s heartbeat kicks it up another notch or three. 

As Allie approaches, Sam holds her hand up, stopping her. Her leg jitters with a muscle that wants to twitch. “Okay, but like—I’ve been at this for a while.” 

Allie looks nonplussed. “And?” 

“Aaaaaaand I’m really worked up?” Doesn’t quite land. “I’m probably gonna be… done fast?” 

Allie gives her a _what the fuck is wrong with you_ look. “So?” And Sam doesn’t really have a response for that. What did she think they were doing? 

Allie’s straddling her legs when she can’t help it anymore again. “What if I only get, like, an inch in, and then come?”

There’s a sigh. “Then I will judge you.” 

“Rude!”

“It’s probably better that way, anyways.”

“Not for my dignity!” 

“I’m sorry—who of the two of us took their dick out _in an office_?”

“You make it sound like I wasn’t lured in by some weird sex artifact and had all this—“ She waves a hand at herself. “—Just lying around.” 

“Shut up and we can lesbian process later. I do not need the shift supe walking in here and seeing you like this.” 

And Sam can’t argue with that. 

And she can’t argue with how it feels when the head of her cock slides between Allie’s labia and she’s _wet_ for her, _fuck_. Sam whimpers and fights the urge to squirm, to press forward, as Allie starts to take her in. 

Allie feels _so good_. So beyond good. It’s exactly as soothing as she imagined it would be—she’s _inside_ , this vulnerable part of her is inside Allie—and somehow even more agonizing because it feels so _good_. Something low inside her loosens when Allie’s taken her in— _all the way_ , it took a little time to work down onto her but _all the way_ —but there’s a pressure at the base of her spine building, too. She can feel her orgasm coming down the line and all she can do is hold on. 

She lasts longer than she was afraid she’d last, but Sam still comes before she wants to. But she can’t hold off—she’s a wreck, and finally being touched undoes her, sets her off like a firework. Her orgasm is blindingly intense, pulse after pulse of what feels like part of her soul spilling out of her, and there’s a few moments where Sam thinks she might pass out, or might have passed out. But Allie reassures her she didn’t, and that she came, too (she did; that’s what set Sam off). For a moment, she feels completely empty, utterly quiet. It feels like she’s poured her entire soul out into Allie’s body.

As she catches her breath, though, thank _god_ , she feels her clit softening and shrinking inside Allie. Allie moves off her, letting her slip out. Sam watches her cock return to its usual size, closer to that of a pencil eraser than her forearm, with a sense of something like... relief? 

It felt amazing. She’s just not sure she could survive the strain a second time. 

They get dressed in silence. Sam passes on handling the phallus. Allie shrugs, and seems to pick up the phallus and return it to its usual place without suffering any kind of mystically-induced horniness. 

Goddammit. _She_ wore gloves, too. Why doesn’t Allie get her own cock just from touching it? 

As they’re wrapping up to leave, Allie pauses suddenly, bowing her head and bracing herself on the workbench area with one hand. The other goes to her lower back. 

“Allie?” Sam practically materializes at her side. She moves that fast. 

“I’m fine.” Allie tries to wave her off, but doesn’t raise her gaze to meet Sam’s. When she bows her head again, Sam’s gaze shifts downward briefly, and she has to do a double-take. 

Allie’s top is tightening. When they came in, it was a work shirt: Fitted enough to look good, but fundamentally pretty conservative. Now, though, it looks poorly sized, like it’s just a hair too small for her proportions. Sam can tell that much already, though she doesn’t know why it’d look— Oh. 

Oh. 

Allie’s breasts look... bigger, than they did a moment ago. Heavier, rounder, fuller. 

And now that she’s paying attention, Sam _sees_ Allie’s shirt tighten. _Sees_ her breasts swell out from her chest, slowly but visibly, sees the curve of them deepening, sees her shirt stretching out in front of her, centimeter by centimeter, then inch by inch. Until her breasts start to lead out in front of her, her shirt pulling taut across the front of her chest, tightening visibly on her back and shoulders. Until her breasts clearly don’t fit in her bra, and begin to grow out of the cups, the lines of her bra clearly visible against the tight fabric, straps pulled into strange, taut angles away from her skin—and her breasts swelling increasingly over the top of her bra, simply too much to fit in the increasingly small cups. There’s a sound of distressed fabric, but Sam isn’t sure where it comes from. 

Her breasts continue to grow until they’ve completely changed the fit of her shirt, which strains across her breasts now but falls loose from them, pulled well away from her stomach or waistband. The top has effectively shortened, the length of it used up accommodating Allie’s growing breasts. Thin slivers of skin have started to appear below the bottom hem of the shirt, occasionally, flashing along the top of her jeans’ waistband. 

Allie makes another abortive sound and clutches one hand to the side of her stomach, panting. Her breasts rise and fall, heavy and distracting. She leans heavily on the arm on the counter. “ _Fuck._ ”

“Are you okay?” It seems like those are the only words in the entire English language that she remembers, somehow. Furiously, she scans for literally anything she can do other than watch Allie grow what seems like multiple cup sizes in front of her eyes in a matter of minutes. Her shirt looks almost a full size too small. 

There’s no response. Sam’s eyes dart down, to where Allie’s hand rests, cradling her side. 

At first, she doesn’t see anything, and she’s just glad to have the excuse to not stare at Allie’s chest. 

But then, Sam sees something. 

It looks like an illusion, at first. But then, whatever is happening to Allie’s breasts did, too, at first. A trick of the light, or the way her shirt frames the little slivers of skin it shows. 

But after a few moments, Sam is almost sure—Allie’s waist is thicker than she’s ever seen it before. The rest of her body is starting to fill out her somewhat loosely-fitted button-down. 

And underneath the shirt... she can’t see for sure. But she can see that the shirt has grown shorter on her, and her figure has grown fuller; the material of the shirt meets her sides, now, clings differently than it did before this started, and she can tell that Allie’s waist is... definitely thicker than it just was when they were... you know. Her belly is expanding under the shirt, not particularly round but _full_ , far too full to make a comparison to eating some kind of meal. No, this is... she has a belly, now, soft-looking but steadily growing. The flashes Sam sees of her waist come more frequently, show more skin, and she can see when they do that the waistband of her jeans is being pushed _outward_ by the weight she’s gaining. But even that doesn’t seem to be enough: Sam can see her belly protruding more and more over the edge of her waistband, too. It’s nowhere near filling out her shirt, but it’s definitely starting to, a little. 

Allie slides her hand over the suspect protrusion at her navel, rubbing slowly, wincing, breathing hard. Sam’s mouth goes dry watching her do it. Sam’s clit throbs in her pants. It feels strangely stiff again. _Shit_. Really? 

Really, it seems. Her dick swells quicker, this time. Starts to press against the fabric of her underwear again. The denim of her jeans starts to tighten on it—which only makes her get harder. 

She doesn’t know what’s happening, but she knows what that motion looks like. Sees it in her mind’s eye: Allie, belly huge and tight with the evidence of what they just did, her hand sliding protectively over it. 

The shirt, which was fitted before, is starting to look awkwardly small: There’s just not enough material to cover Allie. Not anymore. The shirt _has_ gotten shorter as more of her to cover has developed, and as Sam watches, it’s almost like she can see the shirt becoming smaller, more useless. 

It looks like Allie’s stomach begins to fill the lower half of her shirt. The fabric begins to meet the sides of it—first in glimpses, and Sam can’t quite believe her eyes. But then it’s undeniable. There’s a scant inch or two of bare skin constantly visible now between the waistband of her jeans and the bottom hem of her shirt. And in that few inches, Sam watches her belly start to grow well over the waistband of her jeans, pushing it out as it tries to accommodate. She’s not sure if the jeans slip downward or the shirt covers less and less or both. 

Allie arches her back slightly, letting out a small sound of effort. Her belly, already sizable compared to a few minutes ago, grows steadily until it fills it the lower half of her shirt, has it rising and falling with her breathing, like her breasts. And it keeps growing, the shirt smoothing out as her belly grows larger and there’s more to cover, the hem starting to creep up her belly as it becomes skintight. There’s a couple inches of skin visible below the hem, now, and Sam can see a small but definite curve there, pushing the waistband of her jeans down. 

And it keeps growing. 

It’s easy to see what’s happening now; Sam can see the shape of her belly clearly, and the fabric of Allie’s shirt is beginning to stretch. And it’s clear that the waistband of her jeans is digging into the curve of her belly, not just slipping down, as her belly leans out, and out, and her sides start to swell, too. Allie’s hand splays across the place where her belly is the roundest, half over her shirt, half on bare skin. Her clothes are starting to look alien on her, impossible that this body could have fit in these clothes just—fuck, minutes ago?

She’s growing out of her clothes right in front of Sam. 

“Fuck.” Sam’s voice is thick with so many things. Her friend’s figure has already completely changed from the one she entered the room with: Her breasts and belly are heavy and round, curving well out in front of her body, straining the material of her shirt so tight that gaps open between each button, revealing her undershirt beneath. Her frame hasn’t changed too much otherwise—not compared to that—so by comparison, those breasts and belly look enormous on her, almost foreign. Sam’s cock throbs when she sees how much space her belly alone has closed between Allie and the countertop she’s leaning on, how much closer it is to the edge. 

Allie releases her white-knuckle grip on the edge of the counter and starts to unbutton the bottom buttons of her shirt. Once she’s loosened it enough—and her belly pushes it aside once it’s open, her undershirt stretching beyond recovery—she slides her hands down and around and finds the button of her jeans, and tugs on it to release it. She relaxes visibly, heaving out a sigh that makes her whole belly move. She rubs her hand over the growing region of exposed skin at her navel. 

Loosening her clothes provides visible relief, but Allie’s belly continues to swell, and Allie stifles a sound that might be a choked-off whimper as she arches her back (as much as she’s able, with her belly already clearly heavy with whatever is inside it) and rocks her hips and _stretches_ , pushing her belly into the open air—and then relaxing, gasping for breath. Her effort doesn’t seem to affect how fast she grows, but it makes Sam realize that this can’t be easy or pleasant. 

“Shit. Is there something I can do?” Sam finally remembers how to speak and not just stare. 

Allie winces, resting both hands on her belly. “Car. I should go home.” 

Sam nods. “Car.” She repeats, like a dumbass. 

They’re lucky it’s late and almost no one else is there; somehow, they make it out without running into anyone. Allie’s stride has grown slower, careful. Her breasts and belly lead as she walks, the latter still visibly growing if Sam watches carefully. Her hand rests against the lower curve of it, curving under it as if it’s already big enough that she needs to support it. 

Sam is so aroused she’s almost nonverbal. Walking is not comfortable for her, either, but she’s not taking it out until they’re not in danger of attracting any attention. 

And god, but the two of them stand out. Sam with a huge bulge in her pants, and Allie with her huge, tight belly, her heavy round breasts. 

As they’re walking, Allie stops for a moment, wincing. Sam opens her mouth to ask what is it—and sees something move under the skin of Allie’s belly. 

She doesn’t know when this became a kink for her, but Sam almost snaps and reaches for her. Instead, she makes some noises that she hopes count as English and white-knuckles on her keys until the metal digs into her skin enough to cut through the haze of lust and drive. 

The car ride is maybe fifteen minutes, tops. Every so often, Sam glances over to find Allie has grown even bigger, her belly rests increasingly heavily in her lap, has swollen out even farther. Something moves in it again while they’re driving; Allie makes some kind of exclamation to that effect. For her part, Sam’s head is swimming with arousal and panic and _arousal_ and her cock is straining at her jeans, so tight that the back of her waistband is cutting into her hips. She’s just trying to keep the car between the lines. 

Next to her, Allie makes a stifled sound that suspiciously resembles a moan. And maybe it’s not pleasure—for all Sam knows—but it sure affects her like it is. 

When they pull up to Allie’s apartment, Sam turns off the car and turns to look at Allie beside her. She’s going to say something, maybe ask Allie what she wants to do next—but she freezes, and the words die in her mouth. 

Allie is so big. At some point, Allie unbuttoned her shirt up to her breasts and did something so that they’re covered, but she’s pushed up her undershirt, too, and her bare belly sits on her thighs, fills her lap, swells huge and round up to where her breasts rest on top of it, and _those_ only seem small by comparison. The skin is tight and Sam honestly doesn’t know how it’s possible she’s gotten this big, let alone how she could possibly grow _more_. Even her sides strain and curve outward. Her hands almost look small, against it. They rest on the top, the sides; rub absently over the straining swell. Sam eyes the far edge of her navel, where she’s biggest. Could she still reach that far? 

“I’m still growing.” Allie says. 

Sam’s cock pulses at that. Mentally, Sam kicks it. “Can you manage the walk?” 

Allie nods. “I think so.” 

At least she’s on the ground floor. 

It’s slow going; Allie’s body hasn’t had time to adjust to the additional weight, and she’s getting tired. Sam feels like the world’s worst gentleman, offering her an arm with a raging hard-on that’s obvious even in the sparse lighting of the complex’s parking lot. She’s fucking... Allie looks like she should be due any minute and Sam is the reason she’s this pregnant and Sam’s cock is making it clear just how into that Sam is. 

Standing makes it even clearer just how big Allie has gotten, too. Her breasts and belly look almost impossibly big for her body. Her lower back pulls into a curve with the weight of it—and it’s a long stretch of tight, tight skin to her navel, leading far out in front of her as she walks, moving in a way that sends shocks of want up and down Sam’s spine, tightening her cock until she has to bite her lip to not react. Allie has to turn sideways to unlock her door, free hand curving under her belly. 

She was just going to help Allie change into something slightly more comfortable, and try to get her to sleep, or something. 

But helping her out of her pants, ruined underwear soaked with their come, and getting eye-level several times with Allie’s hugely pregnant belly frays the last of her restraint, and all it takes is a heated look from Allie while Sam looks up at her to snap it. She _needs_ to feel Allie—the tight, heavy swell of her belly, the hard, huge breasts. Allie comes more than once before Sam even moves to enter her, and it’s— Sam has never been this turned on before. 

Allie backs onto her cock, and it feels like only a few seconds and a few strokes before they’re both coming again, not bothering to keep quiet. 

What does Sam in is reaching around to touch Allie’s belly and feeling it grow under her hands, feeling the weight of it pressing on her cock, the silky soaked wetness of Allie’s cunt. She made this happen; she put that there. Made her grow, made her so soft, so wet and open and wanton. Made her so big she can barely move. Can’t get dressed or undressed on her own. Can hardly touch herself. 

After her orgasm ends, though, and she starts to catch her breath, Sam realizes that something is wrong. She’s spilled everything she’s got into Allie, and her cock has softened a lot from the constant, pounding arousal—but it hasn’t gone down entirely, for some reason. A low throb of arousal remains, aching. Deep inside her, wherever all... this... is coming from, she can already feel the pressure growing again. She’s going to start getting hard again soon, still buried to the base of her cock in Allie, in their mingled release. 

Sam could almost cry from the frustration. 

Allie makes a sound that goes right through Sam’s cock, stiffens in her lap. Arches her back. 

Even from behind, Sam can _see_ her grow. It’s visible, faster than before, and starts suddenly—she’d actually seemed to stop growing completely, once they’d gotten to the apartment—and Sam’s hands are still resting on Allie’s sides. Her weight bears down on Sam, sinking her deeper onto Sam’s cock. Her sides strain and grow even rounder under Sam’s hands. 

Sam is quivering from base to tip. Quivering everywhere, but especially her cock, _especially_ inside Allie. Every fiber in her being is shouting for her to do it, come a third time, make Allie swell so big she won’t be able to move, won’t even be able to get off her cock. Just grow, and grow, and grow. 

The only reason she _doesn’t_ is because deep down, some tiny glimmer of sanity still possesses her, and it tells her _she’d really like to be able to use her dick for other things_. Also, presumably, they’re going to want to get whatever Sam put in Allie _out_. And then Allie can be furious at her and never, ever speak to her again. 

And then the doorbell rings. 

Fuck, she’d ordered pizza. Because of course Allie was hungry. And then they’d gotten distracted. 

It takes some doing to get Allie seated somewhere that isn’t Sam’s lap—she’s so big she can barely move, her belly resting on the mattress between her spread legs, pushing up so far the only thing Allie _can_ do is sit upright, her arms resting on her immense, gravid belly. 

Sam fights her goddamn dick into a pair of oversized sweatpants and grabs a pillow and answers the door with the pillow over her crotch. 

Honestly, why is she even surprised that the delivery driver is a woman. She runs her fingers through her loose hair—as if that will make her smell any less like sex—and reaches to take the receipt from the driver to sign it against the door, like usual. 

And drops the fucking pillow. 

Look, the driver took it admirably well. 

In fact, she got a keen look in her eye and a flushed, slack look on her face and asked if—

It didn’t matter, because the answer was yes, and Sam _desperately_ needed to come, and she honestly wasn’t thinking about what would happen afterward, but she knew she couldn’t come inside Allie again. Not yet. She was so _full_ , though, and her cock had already left a growing wet stain on her borrowed sweatpants, and when she pulled them down and it came free, it was huge, heavy, straining hard at the skin. 

It only takes moments after Sam comes inside her for the driver—Jess—to begin to grow visibly. Sam only goes partway soft again—and not as soft as last time, either, if her judgment is any good, which it is currently not—and then her erection swelled and hardened inside Jess as she felt the changes take hold: Her weight increasing, pushing her down on Sam’s cock, the stiffness and surprise as she felt the changes begin, the way she arched and stretched as she strained to give her growing belly more space, strained to _grow_. And she did, her belly filled and swelled and began to grow round and heavy, much faster than Allie, and this time, and this time—

Sam’s hands are on her the whole time. Cradling her aching breasts, massaging them as they grew heavier and fuller in her hands, and then hard and hot. Rubbing her nipples and mouthing at her neck (Jess came so many times from that alone). Rubbing her hand over Jess’s navel as it swells outward. 

Sam is fully hard within what feels like thirty seconds of her first orgasm. Within two minutes of her second, Jess’s belly is so big Sam couldn’t reach all the way around to her navel. 

And maybe she’s hallucinating, but her cock didn’t get _nearly_ as soft afterwards before it begins to harden again. 

She has to pull out. Jess is nearly the size Allie was when she left her, and— 

Fuck. She left her. 

She brings the pizza with her as an offering, sweatpants back on, and she’s pretty sure that Allie would’ve had the same reaction to anything she says at this point—impatient, glaze-eyed distraction, complete focus on what she wants most in that moment: Food. 

Allie’s belly is so big that she _can’t_ move from the spot, now. It’s—god, it’s _immense_. It seems to have mostly stopped growing for now—though god only knows when or if her body’s going to decide it’s had enough and it’s time to push whatever’s in it out. 

Sam has a sudden flash back to the phallus, how it strained at its stone skin. The bellies of both the other women in the apartment strain at the skin, twist the frame of their bodies into something else, huge with pleasure. 

Sam’s cock is quivering-hard again. The elastic of the waistband doesn’t even touch the skin of her stomach; it’s pulled clear away by the length of her cock. Allie and Jess look so good, so round and full and pregnant. She can’t, though. She can’t. Not to them. 

Jacking off relieves the pressure, but her cock barely softens anymore, and as the three of them sit in the apartment, Sam starts to feel desperate. Just knowing they’re there, like this, makes her _so_ hard. She doesn’t even have to see them. 

Finally, she has to leave the apartment—maybe some fresh air will clear her head. There’s a gas station with some snacks; maybe she can buy some more food. _She’s_ hungry, too, from being so goddamn turned on all the time, from coming so much. 

It’s a little stupid, trying to walk with a hard-on so big it’s probably visible from a mile away. But it’s night time, and the the cool air is soothing, distracting. 

That lasts until she gets to the gas station. 

The checkout clerk behind the counter isn’t really her type—seems to present as male, though he _is_ very pretty—but _he_ certainly pauses when he notices her… problem. And offers to help her take care of it. As a concerned citizen. 

Maybe, though. Maybe this will be what she needs. She nods wordlessly, and shoves the snacks she just bought into her pockets, stepping outside as he closes up the register to go “take a smoke break”. 

Sam is grateful for the brick wall, the cold air—and his mouth, and his hands on her, and god. She comes so hard, thinking about Allie and Jess, knowing that at least this is safe. She pours herself into his mouth, down his throat. She doesn’t soften at all, it feels like, but she warned him, and he seemed sympathetic. In the dim, indirect light of the parking lot lighting—on the far side of the gas station—he’s smirking as he gets up, wiping his mouth off. 

And then he pauses, his hand going to his stomach. 

Belatedly, Sam realizes her cock hasn’t softened at _all_. And the full feeling down inside her is back, aching like she didn’t just completely empty herself into him. 

His belly grows so fast his shirt simply tears at the seams, and her cock is throbbing, urging her to do it again. To get him as big as Allie. 

Sam tightens her hands into fists and presses them to her temples. But that feeling doesn’t go away, doesn’t even slightly quiet anymore, even with the cold night air. This single, feral, desperate need rises and overwhelms her. 

So when he reaches for her, she slips under.

**Author's Note:**

> And yes, for the record, this *is* written by a genderqueer genderfuck lesbian. I do approve of my lesbian POV character fucking a gay dude to try to avoid knocking someone up, and knocking him up instead. #OwnVoices


End file.
